


Identity Theft

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So you—you don't know who you are."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Theft

**Author's Note:**

> Larry Fleinhardt: Why is it that we remember the past and not the future?  
> Charlie Eppes: That’s a tough one, Larry.
> 
> Larry: Let me ask you one thing. When we met just now, was I going out or coming into the library?  
> Charlie: Larry, you were coming out.  
> Larry: My memory is a memory. Alright.  
> Charlie: Larry—you were coming out!

Apparently, his heart rate was normal, his pupils were reactive, and he showed no visible signs of trauma. His resting pulse was a bit high at 130bpm, likewise with his blood pressure, though he wasn't overly concerned with either of those two things, considering that, at the moment, he didn't know exactly who he was or why he was here.

He did know his name: Charles Edward Eppes, because the chart had that information, updated from "John Doe," along with some other vital statistics. He knew how much he weighed, though the number didn't mean anything to him one way or another. He had a vague memory of being helped onto the scale. He knew he was short, too, only 5'8", though he'd been on his back most of the time, and hadn't particularly _felt_ short. 

He'd been unable to give them a medical history, of course. The chart didn't say whether Eppes was pronounced with one or two long or short "e"s or whether the second "e" was silent. He'd tried out the possible variations, and none of them sounded particularly _right_ , which was a little worrisome, as he realized that he'd assumed there was some baseline sense of rightness he could bring to bear—some subconscious safety net of self-knowledge that went along with what he _did_ seem to know about the world, like that this was a hospital. Obviously, he had some memory intact, because he knew that, and recognized other things that were of a generally impersonal nature, which led him to assume that, though he could read his own chart, he was probably not a doctor, and from that, he also knew that he was capable of basic deduction, logic, and enough mathematical skill to make sense of the information on the chart.

And he'd overheard the nurse say his family was on their way. He didn't know if by "family" they meant parents or children or both, and that question, along with everything else, probably accounted for the elevated heart rate and bp, as well as his sweating palms and, well, the mild nausea could be anything, but was probably an emotional reaction, as again, there were no signs of a head injury, so no concussion. The CT had been normal.

The mirror in the bathroom (and they had let him get up and go there himself) was only slightly helpful, showing him someone in their late twenties or early thirties, with dark brown, curly hair, dark eyes, somewhat unruly brows, sideburns he was not at all sure about, and a very prominent, long nose that dominated the face that he was apparently stuck with. Not particularly good-looking, but not offensive, either, though the guy looking back at him really needed a shave. From the nose and the hair, and of course the circumcision, he was thinking Jewish, which had him leaning towards a short "e" and a silent second "e," possibly a truncated form of "Epstein," though why his penis should be so helpful in this regard and yet be entirely unable to tell him whether he had kids was… frustrating.

He'd even tried looking at the nurses and doctors, trying to work out his sexual orientation, but so far, nobody was getting a rise out of him at all, which, again, might have something to do with the fact that he was doing his best not to panic, and might have something to do with the fact that nobody on staff looked like they did on _ER_ —and again, why did he _know_ this?

Retrograde amnesia: a diagnosis, but not an explanation. The brain was a mysterious thing, and he knew that as well, but not _how_ he knew that.

And yet, despite all he didn't know, and all he couldn’t say for certain, when the two men walked into the room with tentative, worried smiles on their faces, he knew with absolute certainty that they were his father and brother.

The nose and hair were pretty much dead giveaways, actually, even before they spoke. And thank God he didn't need to check their penises.

* * *

"So you—you don’t know who you are."

"Nope. Who am I?" he grinned, and for just a second, his brother, Don, smiled back. When he smiled, Don's eyes crinkled up at the sides, and he estimated he was several years older, maybe more. He was also, objectively speaking, taller and better looking than the guy in the mirror, with less nose and short, spiky dark hair. Charlie didn't hold it against him, though he wondered if he usually did.

"Otherwise—besides this—you're doing okay here, Charlie? They say—the doctors tell us you're—well, of course this isn't…." His father, Alan, stumbled to reassure him, probably, or to reassure himself. Alan looked more like him than Don, enough so that he had a sudden vision of himself in the future, which was really very strange because he couldn't see himself in the past at all.

"I feel okay. It could be worse. Aside from the—" he gestured at his head, and again, Don smiled at him, eyes crinkling, and this time, he realized the smile was a little forced—a bit too cheery, all things considered. He lay back on the bed and sighed. "It's apparently psychogenic—as in hysterical—which surprisingly, I'm not finding all that reassuring."

Don's smile faltered a little, and Alan glanced over at Don quickly, then back at him again. The urge to shake Don up a little might just have been a reaction to knowing that they were brothers, or to that fake smile, or just because he was a little angry at the world at the moment, the panic having apparently morphed into anger pretty quickly there.

He wondered suddenly if he was always this emotional, and why he felt so… distanced from it all, too, like he was watching himself watch them watch him, an endlessly recursive sort of discomfort that he felt but didn't _feel._

"So is this everybody?" he asked, and _everybody_ frowned, Don glancing down at his feet, and Alan clearing his throat and looking at Don.

"Your, um, your mother passed away a year ago, Charlie."

"Oh. I—oh." He almost said sorry, but realized he was sorry he missed her, not that he _missed_ her, because he didn't know her, didn't remember her, and suddenly "sorry" didn't quite cover it.

"You're a college professor," Don blurted out and Charles Edward Eppes, who was apparently "Charlie" to his family, and Professor to everyone else, blinked at him.

"Really? What subject?"

And Don laughed. "English. No—no—kidding. Math."

"Math? What kind of math?"

But Don was still laughing, seeming a little hysterical himself, though Charlie really didn't get the joke. He looked over at Alan, who seemed relieved for some reason.

"Applied mathematics, Charlie. At CalSci," Alan filled in for him.

"Huh. Okay. That's… interesting." Applied mathematics. He wanted to ask, "Applied to _what_?" But he wasn't quite sure he wanted to hear the answer from Alan or Don, because he wasn't actually sure either of them really knew. At least it explained the continuous presence of mathematics in his head, which had been there since he'd woken up without a name, though of course he hadn't been entirely sure it was unusual, as he wasn't _in_ anybody else's head, and hadn't had a chance to ask anyone. He hadn't even quite been sure _how_ to ask something like that. It wasn't like holding out a body part for diagnosis. "Does my brain look normal?" also didn't cover it, as obviously, the answer was "No," although the CT said it _was_ normal, actually.

"You're an extraordinary mathematician, Charlie."

He nodded, knowing that Alan was telling him the truth, or the truth as he knew it.

"I think I can still do that—the math," he offered, though he wasn't entirely sure of that, and wouldn't know until he tested it. And he still wasn't sure _what_ he'd test it _on_ , or _against_.

"Charles?"

He turned to the door, needing to sit up to see past his family to see who had called him "Charles" instead of Charlie. That was significant. Probably an acquaintance or co-worker, though why they'd come by this soon was a mystery. He'd only been here two days before they figured out who he was, and he was still amazed that they'd identified him as quickly as they had, given that he apparently had no identification on him when the police picked him up and brought him here.

The man in the doorway who'd said "Charles" stepped inside, looking serious and worried, but somehow still smiling. He had a complicated face. And a very high voice, though maybe that was just the surprise at seeing him like this. Charlie didn't even want to guess how old the guy was, though he could tell that he was short—probably the shortest person in the room, though as he came a little closer, Charlie decided they might actually be the same height, which was a little disconcerting, because it meant _he_ was shorter than he felt. At any rate, the guy was of average build, or at least what Charlie could see of his body, as most of it was obscured by a boxy button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. The guy's hairline was receding a little at the front, which gave him a somewhat high forehead, ending in tight, reddish-brown curls. His hair might be dyed, though if it was, Charlie couldn't see any hint of gray. And though there were lines on his face that made him definitely older than Don, but there was something young about his face—the round cheeks, probably.

"Charlie, this is Professor Larry Fleinhardt," Alan's voice was gentle, as if he realized just how odd it was to be introduced to people you already knew.

"You're another mathematician?" Charlie asked, and the professor frowned. He'd stopped at the other side of Charlie's bed, opposite Alan and Don, and looked uncomfortable. His hands had come up to just above the bedrail, looking like they were going to land there, and then didn't, instead hovering in front of him.

"Actually, I—"

"He's an astrophysicist. He works at CalSci too," Don interrupted, and Charlie watched Professor Fleinhardt, ignoring Alan and Don for the moment, because the astrophysicist's hands were clenching and unclenching into small fists, still hovering at his bedside, and it was making Charlie sort of nervous watching him twitch like that. Charlie reached out suddenly and took one of his hands, just wanting to—make him stop. And the Professor looked at him, eyes narrowing, and didn't say anything.

And Charlie realized suddenly that he was sort of almost holding Professor Fleinhardt's hand, which might account for the narrowed eyes. He dropped the hand and Fleinhardt looked at it for a second curiously and then smiled at him, apparently not taking offense, and then put his hand on the bedrail, leaving it there.

He had a very pleasant smile.

Charlie looked away, at the bedding. Given what he _did_ remember about life from the annals of _ER_ , his own life was suddenly looking pretty complicated.

Did Alan know? Did Don?

Did Professor Fleinhardt?

"Charlie! Larry! We only just got your message, and I—"

Charlie looked over at the doorway to find yet another visitor, this time an extraordinarily beautiful woman who got about halfway into the room and then stopped, looking confused. "Charlie—wait—you—you really don’t…."

"No, I really don’t," he agreed, finding himself smiling at the woman because she was looking so concerned and flustered and, whoever she was, it was hard _not_ to smile at her. Her nearly black hair fell in waves to her shoulders, her skin was darker than his own, ethnicity indeterminate, as was her accent. And overall, Charlie thought that she looked like she didn't belong in the room with a bunch of shorter than average men, but did belong on the cover of a magazine, maybe, flanked by Hollywood actors.

"You should probably introduce yourself," Professor Fleinhardt offered, helpfully, his voice soft, gentle, and still quite high.

She nodded, tentatively coming a little closer to the bed, but stopping just behind Professor Fleinhardt.

"I—I'm not sure what to—"

"This is Amita Ramajuan," Professor Fleinhardt said, and Charlie realized that her "we" probably meant that she'd arrived here with Professor Fleinhardt. "She's a student of mine. And a former student of yours, as a matter of fact," Professor Fleinhardt added, and Charlie decided he probably liked him.

Charlie held out his hand to Ms. Ramajuan, feeling a little stupid about it, because she obviously knew who he was. But she came over and took his hand and looked… embarrassed? So she was probably not his girlfriend. She was blushing, though, and he realized that he'd just held two almost-strangers' hands in the last five minutes and his father and brother hadn't even touched, him yet, though it made a certain amount of sense, as they probably weren't big huggers and probably were waiting for him to initiate contact, not wanting to overwhelm him, though it was already sort of too late for that.

Again, the layer that separated him from what was happening was…disturbing.

"So you're a… graduate student?" he guessed, hoping he wasn't insulting her, though if she was an undergraduate, she might not mind if he thought she looked a little older. And how old _was_ Professor Fleinhardt, anyway?

"I'm, yes—you—Charlie, you really _don't_ remember who you are."

"No. I really don't. Sorry." He shrugged, and glanced over at Professor Fleinhardt, who seemed to understand how odd it all was, though Charlie wasn't sure how he knew that, as Fleinhardt didn't do anything. It was something about his eyes. They were understanding eyes, though when he looked a little closer, he saw that the man was amused as well.

"No, don't apologize—it's—I'm sorry, it's just so _strange_ because you look _fine._ But then we didn't know where you were, and—and—" And she was starting to cry.

Charlie didn't know what to do, but Professor Fleinhardt reached over to the bedside table and picked up the tissue box and handed it to her, and Charlie looked over at him again, grateful.

And just then, the nurse came in—a skinny, bosomy woman with an attitude, and insisted that _everybody_ leave, and that only two people—family members only—could come back in a half hour, and _only_ for an hour before they, too, would have to leave. And that everybody else could come back tomorrow for a visit, period. Charlie knew they wouldn't really have to visit, as the doctor had said that he would probably be released tomorrow, which was a relief, though the idea of going home with strangers—however much they resembled the man in the mirror—was not at all pleasant.

Ms. Ramajuan nodded, still sniffing into her Kleenex as Professor Fleinhardt patted her on the arm and steered her toward the door, but once she was in the hallway, the Professor hovered at the door for a moment himself before sighing—at least Charlie though he sighed. His shoulders were sort of hunched, as if he was pulling into himself, and Charlie watched as he put a hand to his face and shook his head, as if having a silent conversation with himself, his arm crossed over his chest. "Well, Charles, I suppose we'll come by tomorrow and… talk again. I'm sure you have… questions. Your father has my number, in the meantime."

Charlie wanted to say something but couldn't think of anything but, "Thanks," which was less than he wanted to say.

"I'm probably getting out tomorrow," he said finally, because Professor Fleinhardt was still there, and Fleinhardt nodded again, and said, "Good, good" and looked like _he_ wanted to say more, but it was a fleeting impression and Charlie couldn't say why he thought so, and decided it might just be the strain of watching everybody so closely, trying to get clues to who everyone was without asking, because asking was strange. He wasn't even sure what to ask first.

Alan giving him a brief, awkward hug before going, and he wished he could make it less awkward, but the bed and his own sense of "stranger" made that impossible. And Don patted him on the shoulder in a sort of manly way that wasn't as hard to just go with, before saying they were going to get some coffee and would be right back, and not to worry about anything (which was frankly pretty ridiculous, but he nodded and tried to look calmer than he felt, wondering if he ever did manly, or if that was Don's job). 

And then it was almost a relief to be alone with the nurse, who treated him with brusque attention but asked no questions, demanding no pretence of intimacy, and thankfully, had a name tag affixed to her scrubs, which he noted and then promptly forgot.

There was an almost pleasant aspect to anonymity in a hospital, and he relaxed into it, knowing that in a half hour, he would be back to playing the accidental stranger again.

* * *

As soon has his father and brother returned, he'd thought of at least a few questions to ask about himself, but his father pulled up a chair by the bed and Charlie waited while Alan volunteered a brief biography that was, like the hospital chart, incomplete—a series of facts that said who, what, where, and when, but still sounded more like a character study than a real person. His father was a retired city planner, his dead mother was a social worker, at least before the kids were born, and Charles Edward Eppes, known as Charlie to his family and as Charles to Professor Fleinhardt (and he'd been too distracted to remember now what Ms. Ramajuan had called him, but he was pretty sure it was Charlie) was a child prodigy grown up, a freak of sorts, though Alan didn't exactly say that. He _had_ sounded proud of him, and Don had laughed as Alan told him about what he was like as a child, and then Don had gotten serious as Alan talked about his education, private tutors and his mother accompanying him to Princeton, at which point Don's expression had gone a little tight around the eyes, which Charlie noted but didn't have enough information to make sense of, yet. 

Don, it turned out, was an FBI agent, which at least accounted for how quickly John Doe had been identified after he went missing two days ago, and he told Don what he'd told the police, that he had no idea what had happened to him, or how he'd lost his memory, or even how he'd come to be wandering somewhat ominously near the Colorodo Street Bridge, which he'd overheard one of the police officers call "The Suicide Bridge," though he'd noticed it had prevention measures in place.

Don nodded, listening carefully, and Charlie realized Don had probably read the police report and was checking his story now against the report, and probably wondering whether his brother was a thwarted jumper. Charlie wondered that himself, but hadn't remembered anything more since he'd given that first report, and he saw the disappointment on Don's face as he recited what little he knew, though again, Don tried to mask it—that overly cheerful smile that Don apparently thought was convincing.

Charlie filled in the gaps himself, taking guesses as Alan and Don talked, listening and watching for what they _weren't_ telling him. Whenever his dead mother came up, Don and Alan both looked really carefully at him, as if they were expecting him to get upset, but Don himself seemed calm about her death, which Charlie assumed was part of the stoic, FBI guy thing, because he _had_ to miss her. Alan also seemed comfortable mentioning her, only a softening of his voice and expression giving away that he must have loved her very much.

Once, as they were talking, Don had turned to Alan and asked, "Hey, is he supposed to remember all this himself?" and Alan had said, "He'll remember what he needs to remember, when he remembers it, alright?" And Don had nodded.

"We brought your computer," Alan said suddenly, and Don went to get the black bag that Charlie had noticed he'd brought with him, and took it, but didn't open it. He didn't really want them watching him sort through his files, looking for more clues to who he was.

Instead, he asked one of his more pressing questions. "Is Ms. Ramajuan—are we, um…."

Alan smiled broadly. "No, well, she's—well, you like her a great deal. And she—she's quite fond of you, I can tell you that."

"You were her thesis advisor," Don said, which didn't quite answer the question he hadn't quite asked.

"But now?"

"She finished her doctorate and is getting another one in astrophysics. She's a very smart woman, and not your student anymore," Alan said, and Charlie caught on, or thought he did, to the fact that Alan wasn't talking about the real Charles Eppes anymore, but who his father _wanted_ him to be. And it bothered him that, at the moment, he didn't really know if he and Alan agreed on their future, or what Ms. Ramajuan thought about it, though from the way she'd looked at him, he decided that, if they weren't seeing each other, it was probably not because _she_ didn't want to. Or maybe she _didn't_ want to and had been blushing because he'd been pursuing _her_ , and she wasn't interested, in which case why had she come to the hospital to see him? Or had she been there with Professor Fleinhardt? She'd said " _We_ just got the call," so was there something other than a professional relationship between the two of them? Charlie tried to picture that but couldn't, though that didn't mean it wasn't the case, though he wondered if Professor Fleinhardt was the sort of man to risk a conflict of interest. Wasn't dating a student off-limits? Was dating a fellow faculty member? Was he even _thinking_ about that right now, when he didn't even know who the hell he was? Maybe he _had_ been hit on the head after all.

"So tomorrow—you're getting out of here?" Don asked, and he nodded.

"Yeah, so they tell me. I'm supposed to come back and see the psychiatrist, because of the—" Strangely gay desires, not to mention the inability to recognize himself in the mirror and his apparent fondness for bridges.

"Don't worry, Charlie. You'll—you'll get your memory back."

"You ever have a case like this?" he asked Don, suddenly curious.

Don frowned. "I—no. Nothing—nothing like this, Charlie. You're…"

"Different," Charlie filled in, before the silence could get awkward, and Don looked relieved, as if he'd been looking for exactly that word. It was the word that was riding beneath everything they'd told him about himself—and everything they _hadn't_ said, and everything he felt. A nicer word than "freak" but meaning about the same thing. He'd almost said, "unique" but no—presumably, there were other people out there like him. He could live with different, he decided, but unique was… wrong, somehow.

"In a good way," Don added, suddenly, and Charlie nodded, not entirely sure that was true.

* * *

He slept uneasily that night, holding onto the cell phone Don had given him, which had Don's number and Alan's home number (which was also _his_ home, apparently) and Professor Fleinhardt's number, but not, he noticed, Ms. Ramajuan's number, which told him that Don had programmed it. Of course, it wasn't really _his_ phone; _his_ phone was lost somewhere along with his wallet, and he was glad he hadn't had his laptop with him at the time, or it might have disappeared as well. But he hadn't opened the laptop up yet, not sure why he hadn't, but he was just too tired to face the possibility that none of it would make sense to him—that he might have lost the "applied" part of his life as well as his identity, though he suspected he hadn't, as he'd been surrounded by a steady stream of equations since, well, since he came to be where he was, whoever that was. But he _was_ a math freak, that much was clear, and he wondered how it was even _possible_ to remember the math and forget who he was. Wasn't the _math_ who he was? Wasn't that the thing that defined him—the first thing Don had told him about himself, apart from his family? He wasn't married, had no children, nobody in his life but his family and one colleague and a former student, who might've come by just because she was in a meeting with Professor Fleinhardt, or because she was his girlfriend, or…something.

If he remembered the math, and he suspected that he _did_ remember it, what part of him had he forgotten, and more important, perhaps, _why_?

Hours before dawn, when the hospital's noises were strangely muted but still present, continuous, and oppressive, too loud to be white noise, but too soft and blurred to follow, he sat up in bed and considered the laptop again, but still didn't open it. Instead, he flipped open the phone and called Professor Fleinhardt—who was listed under "Larry" in the phone's very short list of programmed numbers. He paused to wonder whether his own phone's list was any longer, or if the few people who'd come to visit him today were everyone who mattered to him, and if that was a good or a bad thing. Did he actually have any friends _outside_ of work? Was this group of four people basically his life?

At least it meant he had slightly less to catch-up on. Fewer people to get to know.

And as he listened to the phone ring, he realized he had no idea what he was planning to say to a man who, while a colleague, must _also_ be a friend. At least he hoped he was, given that Charlie was waking him up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.

"Hello? Charles, is that you?"

"Larry?" he asked, though he knew it was, since he'd done the dialing. 

"Charles, is everything all right? No, of course it isn't. Nevermind, I'm more than half-asleep, obviously. You're still at the hospital, I assume?" The man's voice was a little lower than he remembered, a little rough from sleep, but still warm somehow, still pleasant, if not familiar.

"Yes," he answered, whispering, though he wasn’t sure why. The bed next to him had been empty since he'd gotten here, and the nurses had been by a half hour ago to check on him, and wouldn't likely be back for at least a little while. He felt vaguely guilty about using his cell, wondering suddenly if someone's monitors were being interrupted, but he couldn't bring himself to hang up just yet. He wondered why he hadn't called Alan.

He wondered if he'd ever felt so alone before in his life.

"Charles, should I come to the hospital?"

"No—no, I just—I don't know why I called, actually," he admitted, and he heard Larry nod over the line, not sure why he was sure Larry was nodding. "I'm fine."

"A relative assessment, I'm sure," Larry said softly, some humor in his voice, and Charlie laughed suddenly.

"I don't know why I have this insane urge to reassure everyone."

"You're a fine person, Charles."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Larry said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Charlie was suddenly glad he'd called.

"Why don't you call me Charlie?" he asked, getting to another of his growing list of questions.

For a moment, there was quiet on the line, and Charlie wondered if they'd been disconnected, but then Larry spoke. "I really have no idea. Is that a request? Would you prefer it if I called you Charlie? I think I sometimes do, actually, though Charles seems to be my default setting."

"Y—" Charlie started to say yes, but then realized that he didn't actually _know_ what he preferred. And logically, if Larry was still calling him "Charles," he must not mind, or he would have said something. Unless he was the sort of person _not_ to say anything. "Have I ever said I'd _prefer_ Charlie?"

"I don't think you have, no. Though I can't guarantee that if you had, I would have called you that. I'd probably have tried, though, I suppose."

"Then never-mind. Charles is fine. What, um, what do I usually call you?"

And again, a silence, though this time, Charlie knew the other man was thinking.

"That depends on where we are," he answered at last.

"Okay." So at work, he probably called him Professor Fleinhardt. But did he see him anywhere _but_ at work? Well, anyplace other than at the hospital? "Larry?"

"Hmm?"

"So Larry's okay?"

"Yes, it's… it's fine, Charles." Charlie heard Larry sigh and suddenly realized he'd essentially woken the man up to reintroduce himself, which was sort of insensitive, not to mention strange.

"Sorry—it's really late."

"Or early," Larry answered. "Depending on your perspective."

"Sorry."

"No—don't apologize. I'm… I'm glad you called. Our visit today was a good deal shorter than I'd expected it to be, and there were things I didn't—"

"Yeah. Sorry. Family only. Do I usually… I don't—So I'm really a college professor?"

"Yes. Is _that_ what's troubling you at this hour of the night?"

"No—it's just strange. I thought—it makes sense. I have these equations in my head, buzzing around."

"I'm sure that's a good sign. Well, though the buzzing—that doesn't sound at all pleasant. Do they always buzz? No—I suppose you can't answer that, can you."

"No, I guess I can't. Do I—this is strange. Is this strange?"

"Are you asking about your calling me? Or my not making sense in the middle of the night, because the latter is—well I suppose that's another thing you can ask yourself when you get your memory back, though by then I suppose it might not matter very much. As for the first thing, there's nothing really _usual_ about this situation, though I suppose the answer you're looking for is sometimes, yes, we do talk late at night, though I don't think I usually remember much about it by morning. We—"

"I just—it's strange here."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want me to come to the hospital, Charles?"

"No—no, I'm—I'm getting out of here tomorrow. Today. Later today. It's okay."

"It's most certainly not okay, as I think we already established, but I will come by the house tomorrow and we can talk then, Charles."

"Um… okay. That'd be…good."

A longer pause, though this time, Charlie could hear Larry breathing on the line. "Did you have any other questions, Charles? Because I think I'm actually awake enough now to answer them."

"I—no. Look, I'm sorry I called so late. So early. Do you—is something—they said that—the doctor said—this is usually triggered by some sort of… trauma. Traumatic event. Did something—is there something I should—

"Charles, trust me when I tell you that if I had any idea what's caused this, I _would_ tell you, though I suppose that whatever it is, it's something you'd rather not know about, or you already _do_ know it, which suggests that if _I_ knew, it might be just as well that I not tell you and let you discover it for yourself in your own time. Though again, I honestly have no idea, so it's all speculation on my part at this point."

"Okay. Yes. That makes sense. An amazing amount of sense, considering it's four in the morning and I'm not sure what you just said."

And he heard Larry yawn over the line, and found that, for the first time in two days, the sense that there was an invisible barrier between himself and the world was gone, and the only barrier between them was the ordinary one of space. He wondered where Larry lived, and how far away it was, and how long it would take him to get to the hospital, even though he knew he wasn't going to ask that he do that.

"We're friends," he said, instead, trying not to make that a question.

"Yes, yes, we definitely are that, Charles. In fact, we—"

"I'm glad. I'm glad I called. And I'm sorry that I woke you, but I—"

"Don't apologize, Charles. You—it's good to hear your voice. You really have—no, you have no idea."

"Do I sound like myself--still?"

"Now _that's_ a question I can't even begin to answer at four in the morning, Charles. Though the simple answer is that you do, of course."

"You're not just saying that."

"Go to sleep, Charles."

"I—alright. You'll come by tomorrow?"

"Yes. That's a promise."

"Okay. Not that I could hold you to it. I don't even know where you live."

"The corner of North Hill Avenue and East Mountain Street, in Pasadena, near McDonald Park. It's a Victorian, lovingly restored, by me, I might add."

"That sounds… nice," Charlie said, though he wondered if he cared about Victorian houses in his other life. "So, um, have I ever mentioned that you'd be a good candidate for making a mountain out of a molehill?"

On the other end of the line, Larry groaned. "At this moment, I do wish amnesia was contagious, Charles, as I'd very much like to forget you just said that."

"Sorry." But he wasn't, actually. He felt strangely happy. Free. "Goodnight, Larry."

"Goodnight, Charles. I l—I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that, Larry hung up, and Charlie at last shut his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

The morning brought several nurses, the attending, then the psychiatrist, who had virtually nothing to say—but spent a bit of time listening. In the interest of getting out, Charlie was as honest as he could be, talking about how it had felt to see his family--in sum, strange, but they seemed nice--and his colleagues--again, strange, especially finding out he was a math freak, though he used the word "prodigy"--and didn't mention that he called Larry in the middle of the night and thought he might want to sleep with him, if Larry was into casual sex with a complete stranger.

Because Charles Eppes apparently was.

Though it might have been just Larry.

The psychiatrist nodded a few times then wrote something in his chart, telling him not to worry, that it could take time, that he shouldn't pressure himself to remember, but that he might find himself recalling things a bit at a time, and he should write those things down, but not worry too much. Charlie wondered whether worry might be a rational response at this point, but again, didn't argue. And finally, they let his father and brother in, and he signed his release papers, stopping a moment with the pen in his hand and wondering if he knew how to write his own name. He had no identification to copy, and so did the best he could, trying not to think about it and just _writing_ it, though it felt like he was forging papers, and his hand shook a little as he finished signing.

The comfort of Larry's presence over the phone was, not to put too fine a point on it, a distant memory at this point. And it wasn't afternoon anymore but early evening, the whole getting out of the hospital taking far longer than it should, so that he wondered, now, if Larry was going to come over at all. By the time he got "home" with these people, it would be dinnertime, and it wouldn't be appropriate to duck out to Larry's house. His father would of course want him to stay in, and play another round of Twenty Questions (and he had those, written down, in fact, during the endless time when there was nothing to do but avoid opening his laptop and watch _Jeopardy_ , which he was ridiculously good at, actually, considering that he couldn't remember his own address.)

"All set? You've got everything, Charlie?"

"Me, my laptop, and a complimentary drafty robe. I think I'm all set."

Don chuckled, a bit too heartily, and Charlie rolled his eyes, then realized he'd done so and that Don had seen him do it. Don looked startled for a minute, then clapped him on the arm, another of those manly expressions of manliness that made Charlie want to roll his eyes again.

They walked to the car in near silence, Alan's hand on his arm steering him to it, and into the front passenger seat. He looked out the window during the ride, feeling like a tourist. The laptop case weighed more than it should, and he started to wonder whether it contained the trauma, which was a good reason to open it. There was always the possibility that whatever it was that triggered this was right there, waiting for him, which was an equally good reason _not_ to open it.

He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Don there, looking anxious but smiling at him when he caught his eye. Amnesia-inducing computer files or small-talk about the weather with the Fed in the backseat. None of these were particularly _good_ choices, and both felt potentially traumatic. Charlie pulled the laptop out of the bag and opened it.

But the laptop didn’t speak to him at all. He clicked through and saw a variety of files that appeared to be work-related, all nicely organized, which was good to know. There was quite a bit of password protecting, which he wasn't even going to bother with, at this point, because there was also some accessible stuff to look through. There was a separate folder marked "Larry" that appeared to have mathematical work that he recognized, or could make some sense of, though the context was a blank. It was like reading the middle few pages of a book, not knowing the genre or the author. He could make educated guesses, but he realized it would take him awhile to reconstruct the reasons behind the equations, and he would probably need Larry to do it.

Not that that was a _bad_ thing.

He opened his email program, seeing less organization, a _huge_ "inbox," and separate folders marked "students" and "advising" and "Committees" (with several subfolders) and "Amita" and "Larry" and "Dad" and "Don" and "Stuff"—the last being the largest. He considered looking at the family ones, then felt weird about that, because what was he trying to find out? If they were _nice_? And what if he found a nasty email from Don? Was he in any condition to respond to that? No, at this point, it was probably best to go with first impressions and hope he was a good judge of character, because "Dad" (who he was going to have to stop thinking of as "Alan") seemed like a good person, and Don seemed… well, he didn't dislike him, anyway. Amita… he almost opened that one, but didn't.

He opened up "Larry" first. It seemed fitting, somehow.

The most recent email was like the files he'd opened—in media res referencing of things that made no sense, with no introduction or commentary—just the numbers—and he recognized enough of it to see it was work-related, had something to do with super symmetry, and at least part of it was…wrong? The equation Larry sent him was definitely _wrong_. He made a note of that, wondering how he could possibly know that. But it was like the buzzing in his head, background noise until something suddenly jumped out and demanded his attention. He saw Alan's sidelong look as he started typing, and then stopped, not wanting to have to explain it all, especially since the equation, while _wrong_ in ways that made his head sort of ache, wasn’t traumatic, per se. Annoying, yes, but not traumatic. Not really what he was looking for.

Going back two emails, he almost dropped the laptop, catching it just as it hit his knees.

"Love, Larry."

He scrolled back up, realizing he hadn't actually read the email itself.

Again, his eyes settled on the signature and failed to track upwards. Still not tracking. And the buzzing had faded to background noise again.

"Remembering something there, Charlie?"

They'd stopped at a light, and his Dad leaned over, and Charlie tipped the monitor down so Alan couldn't see it. "No, not really," he said, hearing the crack in his voice. Was he a good or a bad liar, he wondered? Could he _keep_ a secret like this? _Had_ he kept a secret like this?

And why was he so sure it was a secret? Maybe it was a platonic "love" because they were… no. That made no sense at all.

"There's probably some stuff on there you can't access."

"Yeah, Don. I, um, noticed that." There was apparently a whole helluva _lot_ he couldn't "access" at the moment.

"You do some consulting for the government. High security clearance stuff."

"That was what I figured," he said, though he hadn't actually given it a lot of thought. Still, it made sense. College professor, specialty in Applied Mathematics and, apparently, also Astrophysics. It made sense.

"Love, Larry" _didn't_ make sense. Why the hell hadn't Larry _said_ anything?

That question went right to the top of his list, above "Do I have any food allergies I should be aware of?"

"Here we are."

And Charlie looked at the house as they pulled in, not recognizing it at all, not even really seeing it, but suddenly seeing a different house—a vague flash that was there and gone so quickly, super-imposed on this one, that he almost didn’t notice it, and couldn't say what it had looked like, though he knew without a doubt it was at the corner of North Hill Avenue and East Mountain Street.

He blinked, focusing on the unfamiliar house that was _there_ , shut the laptop, and got out of the car on unsteady legs, following Alan and Don to the front door. He was "home."

* * *

"Oh, Larry called earlier, while you were still with the doctors, and said he'd be by for dinner."

"He—he's coming to dinner?"

Alan looked at him strangely and then nodded, as if he'd forgotten that Charlie didn't know the ins and outs of his own life, much less his house, and wasn't actually even sure where the bathroom was, which was becoming a pressing issue, but not as pressing as _this_.

"He said he said he'd come by tonight. Is that okay? If it's too much, I'm sure he wouldn't mind coming over—"

The doorbell rang, and Charlie found the nearest chair and sat down in it. "No—it's… that's fine. I had some questions about some of the files I found—some… work."

Alan nodded, and walked to the door, and Charlie realized that Alan was a nice guy, having not asked him once if he remembered anything in the house (he didn't), and getting him a beer like it was something he always did, which Charlie drank slowly, having no real idea what his limit might be.

"Charles? Or should I say 'Charlie'?" Larry smiled at him tentatively, and Charlie debated whether to get up or not. The polite thing was to get up, say hello. The "you didn't happen to mention we were sleeping together" thing was to sit there and glare at Larry, meaningfully. Larry had on a black t-shirt and Charlie tried not to notice that he could see more of him than the last time, and that he still liked what he saw.

He got up and smiled at Larry, holding out his hand for Larry to shake. Larry glanced at it curiously and took it, and yes, held it just a little too long, though Alan didn't seem to notice anything. Don was in the bathroom upstairs, and Charlie heard, and took note of, the apparent location of the flushing sound, apparently near the back of the house.

"I'll be right back."

He gave Larry another wide grin and headed up the stairs, brushing shoulders with Don on the way up. "Larry's here for dinner," he said. 

Don cocked his head to the side and headed down, calling back to him, "Yeah, he does that. Eats dinner."

In the bathroom, Charlie emptied his bladder, washed his hands, and took a second to reacquaint himself with his own face, testing out a few more expressions. He hadn't gotten anymore attractive since he'd left the hospital, though he had managed to shave before leaving, which was a relief, as the beard had been starting to itch. He was only slightly better looking without it, and tried on a grin, then stuck his tongue out for good measure. Now _that_ was attractive. He could see why Larry was smitten. At least the clothes Alan brought him weren't bad. A blue t-shirt with an abstract design on the pocket and a faded pair of Gap jeans. He had better taste than he expected, for a math geek.

The man in the mirror smirked at him, not looking at all as smart as he was supposed to be.

He went downstairs, reluctant to face them again, but pretty sure he could not hide in the bathroom all day. On the way down the hall, he spotted what must be his bedroom, but didn't stop to look around, because Larry was downstairs.

"So—do I have any food allergies I should know about?" he asked, ignoring his anxiety and heading for the table, sitting down in the only available seat, glad he didn't have to figure _that_ one out. 

"Nothing here you can't eat, although you might—" Alan stopped.

"What?"

Don grinned, a real grin that Charlie decided he liked. "Don't tell him. Let's see if he likes it first."

"What?" he asked, looking at the table, trying to see what might turn out to be secretly disgusting. It all looked fine. Chicken, a big bowl of mashed potatoes that had a slight crust around the edge and was obviously cooked earlier and reheated. Gravy. Broccoli. Did he like broccoli? Did anyone really like broccoli?

The chicken was good, and he ate some and used that as an excuse not to say anything. But it turned out that he did _not_ like the mashed potatoes. At _all_. It wasn't the taste. It was the _texture._ They were… buttery, smooth, sticking to his tongue and—he grabbed for his beer, washing them down.

"Oh, thanks _very_ much for warning me. That was nice. Did I do something to you in my former life that you want to tell me about now?"

Don laughed. "You should have seen your face just now. That was—"

"I can't really fathom what it is you dislike about them, Charles, because they really are delicious," Larry broke in, and Charlie took another drink of his beer, noticing he was getting close to the bottom of it and wondering if he could risk having another, just to get through dinner with Larry without saying something stupid.

"They taste like papier mache glue."

"And he's _tried_ papier mache glue," Don added, still laughing at him.

"In kindergarten, I think it was," Alan added.

"I'm assuming you fed it to me personally?" he asked, and Don nodded. "Nice. Very nice."

"Y'know, you should actually consider this an incentive to remember," Don said and Charlie set his beer down on the table harder than he meant to.

"I'm trying," he said, and Alan looked at Don, who looked at the table and shrugged.

"Your brother is actually right, Charles, though of course he meant that, in your current state, you'll need to be especially wary of being taken advantage of."

"Yes," he nodded, "I can see where that _would_ be a concern. It would be very _easy_ for someone to be _selective_ in their _truth_ -telling," he offered, speaking to Don and Alan and not looking at Larry at all, though he could peripherally see Larry's face—the way Larry opened his mouth, wrinkling his nose just a little, a look of surprise that was actually kind of cute, or would have been if Charlie wasn't currently pissed off at him.

"Precisely the point," Larry agreed, nodding slightly, gesturing with his fork. "The world is, as I'm sure you'll come to remember eventually, a complicated place," Larry added, and Charlie finally had to look at him, because he was in his line of sight, so it was getting a little hard to avoid, but right at that moment, Larry chose to look down at his mashed potatoes, his shoulders a little turned inward, possibly chastened.

Charlie lifted his fork and grimaced at the mashed potatoes still stuck to it, and got up to the kitchen, coming back with a clean fork. As he sat down, he realized that he hadn't needed to hunt around for one. He'd opened the right drawer on the first try.

"I know where the forks are," he said, and Don actually gasped. Alan just nodded and said, "Good. You can help with the dishes afterwards. You never do that, by the way, but I think this is something I should take advantage of. And who knows? You might actually find that you _like_ doing the dishes."

* * *

Dinner was easy after that, as Larry hardly said anything at all other than asking Charlie to pass the bread, and if their hands brushed and lingered, nobody seemed to notice. Don got a little carried away telling him about the time he'd bought the house from Dad, and Charlie listened, trying to hear himself in the story, because this _was_ his house.

After dinner, Don left to take a phone call, and Charlie followed Alan into the kitchen. He knew where the forks _and_ knives were, which meant he actually did feel he had to help with the dishes, which, like the mashed potatoes, he really did not enjoy. Alan was quiet as they passed off pieces of silverware and dishes, and Charlie took each one as a personal test, mapping out the kitchen from memory (from _memory!_ ) and trying not to get too excited by that, because there was so much he didn't know.

"I was thinking about going to see Larry tomorrow," he said, hoping it sounded casual.

"Now _that's_ a very good idea. I was going to suggest that. Who knows. Maybe you'll see your office and everything'll come flooding back."

"I—I meant his house, actually," he clarified, and Dad stopped, mid-motion, a plate in his hand. "When we pulled in, I think I… I think I saw it. Remembered it. Maybe." He shrugged, not wanting to make too much of it, and Alan nodded. "I'll go to CalSci _afterwards_. It'll be easier… fewer people. At Larry's place."

"Hmm. And the doctors—you'll be seeing them too, I imagine?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. I can probably—Larry can drive me over to the hospital." He suggested it, not even sure Larry had a car. Though he realized he'd heard Larry drive up, and this was California, and didn't everybody drive a car?

"So you want another beer?"

The last dish was put away, and Charlie considered that. "I—yeah, actually. I'm not—" He wasn't really feeling drunk, but he wasn't sure he was the best judge of that, given that he didn't remember what drunk felt like.

"I think you can handle two with dinner."

He took it, gratefully. At least it would give him something to do with his hands while he talked to Larry.

Alan went outside to check on Don on the porch, and Charlie tried to ignore that, knowing they were talking about him, comparing notes and talking about "silverware."

He took his second beer back out into the dining room, not at all surprised to see Larry still sitting at the now-cleared table, his head resting in his hands. He might have been asleep. His eyes were closed. But when Charlie sat down, next to him this time, Larry opened his eyes and smiled.

"Charles."

"Larry," he said back, and he couldn't help it. He smiled. He was still angry, but suddenly the whole thing seemed funny, too. He checked to see that his family had not snuck back in the house and, seeing the coast was clear, tapped Larry's beer bottle with his own. "To secrets," he toasted.

Larry picked up his beer, his eyebrows drawing together and then he nodded. "To making _new_ memories."

The bottles clinked again, and then Charlie sighed, closing his own eyes and taking a drink. The beer was cold, easing some of the tightness in his throat he hadn't realized was there. And then he felt it—the softest of touches, tracing down from his jaw-line to his collarbone.

He shivered.

"I'm sorry," Larry said, his voice very soft. "I did try to say something last night, but you—"

"Oh, do not try to pass this one off. I did _not_ keep you from telling me," Charlie argued, his eyes still shut. He was almost afraid to open them. Larry's hand had moved down his arm with the most delicate of caresses and was now tracing light circles on the top of his hand, and he turned his hand over, so that it was palm up, and Larry took his hand, holding it tightly.

"Forgive me, then, because I just—I wasn't at all sure—I thought it was entirely possible that you…."

"What?" Charlie opened his eyes, and saw that Larry was frowning, looking at their clasped hands.

And then the screen door shut, given them just enough time to let go of each other's hands, but not enough time for Larry to figure out a good excuse for not telling him that it felt like _that_ to be touched by him.

"Well, Alan, I think I really should be going, give Charles here a chance to rest." Larry stood up from the table, putting one hand on Charlie's shoulder in a way that was casual, easy, though Charlie felt it all the way to his toes. "Charles?"

Charlie nodded, feeling wide-eyed and awake, wondering how he was ever going to sleep tonight. "What time—when should I come over?" he asked, suddenly realizing he didn't even know Larry's schedule. He'd just assumed—invited himself over, actually.

"Whenever you get up is fine. Tomorrow's Saturday, and I don't imagine I'll be sleeping in."

"Oh. I—okay."

And Larry left, and Charlie hoped that, however weird he might seem, his family would assume it was stress, which was an accurate assessment, actually.

Alan walked Larry to the door and outside, and Charlie could tell there was another debriefing going on, and then Alan came back and Charlie said goodnight, accepting a pat on the shoulder that turned into a slightly less awkward hug.

"Don had to leave, by the way. He, um, does sometimes. Work. And said he'd see you tomorrow night. He's still working the case—your case. He wanted you to know that."

Charlie nodded, knowing but still being surprised to think of himself as a case—as his _brother's_ case. And it was weird thinking of Don as someone who got urgent phone calls at dinner from the US government.

"I think I will… go to bed," he said, suddenly, and realized that wow, he was _exhausted_.

He made it upstairs on his own, found the room he thought was his, and fell asleep with his clothes on, in a bed that might have been his or anyone else's, but was comfortable enough that it felt wonderful. 

His dreams, though, were restless, and when he woke up the next morning, he knew he had remembered something, though he couldn't remember _what_ he'd remembered, only that it had made him sad, and tired, as if he had not slept much at all.

* * *

His father drove him to Larry's right after breakfast, because it turned out he had a license, but _didn't_ have a license, because it was gone, with his wallet, which still hadn't turned up, or _washed_ up, and besides which, he didn't know his way around anymore.

Larry's house was just as he'd seen it in that brief flash of memory, and he said a distracted goodbye to his dad, nearly forgetting his bag with the laptop in it, presumably his reason for seeing Larry today.

He made it all the way up the steps and into the house, hearing his father's car pulling away, the door closing behind him, and then he felt Larry's arms close around him, and he put his hands on Larry's waist, where it was just a little bit soft, and pulled him closer, ignoring the strangeness of knowing and not knowing Larry, of the way that Larry fit neatly against him, and his own awareness of Larry's body, unfamiliar and exciting even though it was a somewhat chaste hug—a hug meant to give comfort, though he was getting an erection anyway, and wondered if he should apologize for that.

But then Larry was dragging him along to the bedroom, and onto the bed, having said nothing at all as yet—not even hello—though it didn't seem to matter at this point. He did feel properly greeted. 

Larry kissed him and tasted like coffee and smelled like soap, his hair curling tightly and still damp, and Charlie didn't know where to put his hands, wanting everything at once, not even knowing _what_ he wanted.

He had no memory of sex, with Larry—with anyone—no memory of ever even kissing anyone before.

It occurred to him that he was probably doing it all wrong, fumbling like the virgin he apparently was, at least at the moment, as of two days ago, though of course he had managed to shave this morning without killing himself, so apparently there were some things his subconscious was taking care of in his absence.

He laughed, reaching for Larry's zipper, pulling it down, because it felt very dirty doing this—very presumptuous—and Larry arched up against his hand, moaning a little into his mouth as they kissed.

He wondered who usually took the lead, and whether he should ask what Larry liked, or what _he_ liked, thinking about those mashed potatoes, suddenly, though it was hard to imagine that anything with Larry would be anything but good, and very likely excellent. _This_ felt very good.

His body was _thrumming_ ; his pulse was fast and he felt dizzy with lust, light-headed and impatient, and needy. And for some reason, Mersenne prime numbers were gliding by when he shut his eyes, seemingly endless strings of them that also felt kind of like sex: rhythmic and beautiful.

And Larry was still kissing him, long, lazy kisses as if he didn't know that Charlie was all need, primed for it—that he was going to come, just from kissing, from the shockingly hot length of Larry's penis curving into his palm, thrusting into his fist.

But then Larry pulled away from him with a gasped, "Wait," and Charlie waited as Larry took down Charlie's zipper and freed his erection, holding it and pressing them together on the bed, Larry's weight holding him in place, pinning him cock to cock, and Larry was kissing him again, and Charlie realized they were _both_ a little frantic, panting. Then Charlie shut his eyes and pushed _hard_ up against Larry's body, using his other hand to pull Larry's hips closer, and as he was coming, he remembered: Larry, naked, on the bed, his cock curving up against his body, his eyes fluttering closed as he touched himself, knowing Charlie was watching him come.

* * *

"I'm trying to _solve_ P vs. NP?"

Larry blinked at him. "You remembered that? _Now?_ "

He nodded and laughed against Larry's shoulder.

"I suppose I should be…flattered." And Larry patted his back softly, rubbing between his shoulder-blades in small circles. 

"You know that it’s considered unsolvable?" 

Larry looked at him _very_ strangely. "Well, certainly, people who have failed to solve it might _think_ that."

"You have a lot of confidence in me. That's… touching." 

"Well, on that note, and while I'm unburdening myself and touching you, I should probably inform you that we're involved in a sexual relationship. Though I suppose you might have noticed that."Charlie curled into Larry's body, wishing they were naked, so that he could feel him, skin to skin.

"Hmm. Yes, I actually picked up on that. So I'm guessing I'm gay?" 

Larry did that open-mouthed, nose-wrinkling look of shock and then smiled. "Appearances can be deceiving, and sexual orientation is, after all, a complicated thing. But I suppose the evidence does point to certain conclusions. Does that bother you?"

Charlie lifted his head up slightly. "No. Why— _did_ it bother me?"

"I'm not sure, but probably," Larry answered, and Charlie nodded, appreciating the honesty.

"So… this… do I _love_ you?"

He watched Larry's adam's apple as he swallowed. Larry looked up toward the ceiling, not meeting his eyes.

"Now Charles, isn't that really something you should be _telling_ me, instead of _asking_ me?"

"No. Maybe. But you—you love _me_ ," Charlie wished he didn’t need to ask, and that he could be patient.

Larry shut his eyes.

"You signed your email, 'Love, Larry.'"

"I did? I don't usually do that. In case somebody…well. I suppose if you can figure it out, I've been right all along."

Charlie nodded. "I can see where we might be discrete. I can't even begin to imagine Alan's reaction to this."

Larry blinked at him and then actually _giggled._

"What's so funny?"

"What makes you think your _father_ doesn't know?"

Charlie pulled back, sitting up. "I assumed—you—how can he _know_?"

"That would be a long story, and one I'm sure I can't tell as well as you can. But Charles—"

"When he came in—if he knows, why did you pull away?"

"Knowledge is a complicated thing—"

"Is anything in your world _simple_?"

"No, nothing in my world is simple, and if you were yourself, I'm quite sure you'd disagree with me on that, so I won't bother arguing the point now, except to point out that my world _is_ your world, at least while you're in _my_ bed. And now I've lost my point entirely." Larry frowned, reaching down and belatedly tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up.

"My father," Charlie prompted him, more than a little shocked at Larry's candor.

"Right, yes, as I was saying, I suspect that your father, who tends to share my view on the state of _the_ world, is, in fact, very much hoping that, if you remember everything else, you forget _this,_ and I can't say that I don't understand his logic. In fact, he suggested to me last night that our relationship might be responsible for your condition, to which I—"

"But—"

"—agreed," Larry finished, drawing his hand to his face and rubbing at his eyes.

Charlie looked down at him. "That's ridiculous."

"Then tell me, honestly, that the same thing _hasn't_ already occurred to you. As far as I know, I was the last person to see you before you vanished and turned up…somewhere that I find deeply troubling."

"I—" He stopped, wanting to protest that it hadn't occurred to him that Larry was the cause, though actually, _everything_ had occurred to him. He'd made a list of possibilities, all of them vague, none of them any better than any others.

But this—this was _not_ something he'd _ever_ voluntarily forget.

"Is it always like this?" he asked, deciding to change the subject before he got upset, though it might actually be too late for that. "Us—Do we actually get along?"

Larry shrugged. "As much as two people of independent minds can be expected to. I would say our moments of congruence are often more often carnal than theoretical, though you do like the outdoors, as do I, so— "

"So in other words, you'd say that we were happy."

Again, Larry didn't look at him.

"We _were_ happy," he said again, not making it a question.

"I wouldn't presume to speak for your emotional state, under the present circumstances, Charles."

"No, but you'd presume to get me naked and—"

Larry raised an eyebrow at him.

"Maybe you _lied_. Maybe we're not even _involved_ in a sexual relationship and you just—"

"Took blatant advantage of your confusion for an imperfect orgasm that necessarily required that I argue with you about it afterwards. Yes, that's entirely possible."

Imperfect. Score another one for Larry's candor. Charlie fell back onto the pillow with a sigh. "Possible but not probable."

"I haven't studied the odds of it, but no, not probable. And why ask me? After all, I might lie. Everybody lies, or so I've been told."

"No, if you were lying you'd tell me the sex was great. So I'm thinking I must love you."

"Are you sure you weren't hit in the head? Because your logic really is appalling today."

Charlie ignored that, knowing that Larry was right. If he were thinking clearly, he wouldn't be in this mess. "So is this a long-term relationship?"

"Wait here." Larry rolled off the bed and left the room.

Charlie listened to him go downstairs, and while Larry was down there, Charlie stripped, getting under the covers, because if he was going to be emotionally uncomfortable, he might as well be physically comfortable. And there was nothing comfortable about damp, come-stained clothing.

Larry came back and didn't comment on his nudity, instead tossing a large book onto the bed. "Here."

A photo album. 

Charlie opened it, amused to see several really cute photos of what had to be Larry as a kid, large-eyed, curly-haired, and small even as he grew up. And then some photos of him later, riding a bike, sitting on an ugly sofa next to a dog, one of him graduating high school, another college, a photo of Larry with some friends, geeky looking guys that Charlie hoped weren't boyfriends. Then what had to be grad school. Some people who had to be his family were in some of the photos here and there, and Charlie knew he was going to come back to those. He was skimming through Larry's life, no insult to Larry but really wanting to get to the place where he entered it, and then, there it was.

"That's—"

Larry, he noticed, hadn’t sat down on the bed, and was standing by the doorway, as if ready to make a quick exit.

"I've got short hair."

It wasn't really the first thing Charlie noticed, but the other thing—he couldn’t actually figure out how to ask _that._ And then finally he did, because _seriously._ And besides which, "imperfect sex"?!

"So just how old _are_ you?"

He held the album open to the page with a slightly yellowed newspaper clipping: one Charles Edward Eppes, clearly in early adolescence, in all his geeky glory, sitting at a desk, in front of an open book, and standing behind him, a much younger Larry, one hand on his shoulder, the both of them looking at the camera. Charlie was wearing a t-shirt, but Larry was wearing a suit—a tie—and the caption under the photograph read: "Boy Genius, Princeton Bound. Professor Larry Fleinhardt, astrophysics, with his new star pupil and local prodigy, 13 year old Charlie Eppes."

Larry still hadn't answered, and Charlie looked up from the clipping and saw that Larry had slid down in the doorway and was leaning against it, his hands pressed against his cheeks, frowning and looking vaguely miserable.

Charlie did the math, and even if Larry had just gotten his doctorate minutes before the photo was taken, assuming he didn't skip any grades (and granted, it was entirely possible he had, but Charlie was estimating conservatively here), Larry might be 26 in that photo—twice his age at the time.

Charlie flipped back through the photos again until he came to the one with Larry in the mortarboard and actually pulled the photo out of the album, ignoring the photo corners that came out with it. On the back was the year.

Not 26, then. Not _twice_ his age.

"Um… okay. Unexpected, but okay."

Wow.

"You don't really… I mean, it never really occurred to me. You're really very…" What was the right thing to say here? Hi, we've just had nearly anonymous sex, apparently not for the first time, and you're pretty hot for a guy two decades older than me, even if I do suck in bed. 

Two _decades_. Twenty _years_.

He could sort of see now why Alan might not be too thrilled with this. Not that there was anything wrong with experience, per se, though really, the expectations were a little daunting.

"Wait—we _weren't_ —"

Larry's eyes widened and his hands came down off his cheeks, leaving pale handprints where he'd been blushing. He really was pretty cute.

"No—of course we weren't," Charlie said quickly, before Larry could pass out. "But still—that's—a long—"

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

And strangely enough, he did.

Not that it helped, because Larry still hadn't said anything, and the silence was making him pretty aware of just how naked he was in Larry's bed, and how much Larry looked like he was never, ever planning to come near him again, and might, in fact, consider moving out of his own house to avoid another mediocre sexual encounter.

"I'm an idiot," he said finally.

And Larry sort of almost smiled. "No, you're a 'Boy Genus' ironically experiencing early senility."

"I am never living this down, am I?" he asked, and Larry sighed.

"There's still the remote chance that amnesia is contagious, I suppose."

"Maybe it's transmitted through genital contact," Charlie offered. "We could try again."

And Larry actually laughed, getting up from the floor and standing there a moment, swaying slightly, as if making a decision. And then he nodded to himself and started to unbutton his shirt, and Charlie watched.

Larry didn't look at him at all as he pulled his shirt off, and then took off his jeans and underwear, and Charlie had to force himself to _breathe_ , because even though Larry was undressing mechanically, as if he was entirely unaware Charlie was even _there_ , it was still the hottest thing Charlie had ever seen. No—the hottest thing he could _imagine_ seeing.

Because he'd remembered Larry naked, but it had been just a flash of memory—nothing he could hold onto—but this… he stared. He couldn't really help it.

And Larry was youthful, but not young, and Charlie realized he'd _known_ that, but hadn't really let himself think much about it. It hadn't mattered, because what _mattered_ was the way Larry looked at _him_ , and _touched_ him, and how Larry could be both gentle and incredibly cuttingly sarcastic at four in the morning, and yeah, there was also the fact that on whatever level, his body _remembered_ Larry, because seeing him naked triggered an instant, immediate response that said that his penis did not really care about doing the math.

His heart apparently didn't care either.

Larry was now watching _him_ , a little defiantly, and Charlie got up out of bed and walked over to him, putting his hands on Larry's shoulders and kissing him again, and now it was _easy_ because he knew exactly what he wanted to do.

"Charles, you really don't...."

And then Larry was silent again, letting him learn Larry's body, realizing that he apparently already knew this, the way that his hand knew the contours of his own face. He could make Larry gasp and shiver with surprising accuracy, and then he was on his knees, looking up, and it was _easy_ to do this, entirely _too_ easy, and he had a brief moment of _un_ easinessas he considered that in a few hours, he had to talk to the psychiatrist and that this was probably going to be among the things he'd have to figure out how to explain.

He stopped just as Larry was starting to pull his hair. "I wouldn't want you to have another imperfect orgasm, so if you want, we could—"

Larry's fingers tightened against his scalp, not directing him, but not letting go, either.

"Okay then. I'll take that as a 'Please, Charles, I beg you to make me come.'"

Larry moaned, closing his eyes, and then nodded, just once.

Charlie smiled up at him and continued. And this time, he took his time, not distracted by Mersenne (because now it was twin primes, which seemed almost nonsensically romantic.)

Larry's legs were trembling slightly and Charlie moved them over to the bed, which gave him better access and better control, and eased Larry's grip on his hair. Larry turned to randomly stroking over his body, though of course it wasn't random, because Charlie could and did track the movement as a series of concentric circles that narrowed in on his ass, ending just as Larry slid a wet finger inside of him and…pressed.

He shifted back onto Larry's finger, trying not to think about the fact that he was now wiggling his ass in the air. He supposed that, by now, he was actually pretty blasé about the whole thing, but at the moment, it was deeply weird—deeply _deep_ , and just about the most intensely good sensation possible—just short of coming, but only _just_.

And then Larry had other hand on Charlie's hip and was shifting him over and onto their sides, and Larry still had his finger working inside of him, but now Charlie could feel Larry's tongue on him as well, bypassing his erection entirely until it was _in_ him.

And 69 was just possibly the most beautiful non-prime number in the _world._

* * *

Larry stretched, drawing his hands over his head and rolling over onto his front. "Definitely very close to perfect."

"I wasn't going to ask."

Larry raised an eyebrow at him and he sighed.

"Okay, so how close _is_ very close? Because I'm thinking we should try again, while I still remember what I just did."

Though really, he couldn't get it up again if he tried. Probably.

And even if he did, Larry's eyes were fluttering shut, and Charlie watched as he fell asleep.

"I love you. Larry?"

Larry didn't answer except to snore softly, his head pillowed on his hands, his breathing even and peaceful.

"I love you. I know I do."

But when he fell asleep again, he again dreamed, and this time, he was in Larry's office.

* * *

"We need to go to CalSci. Larry?"

"Wha?"

He patted Larry's back and then put his hand on Larry's bare ass, slapping him.

"Ow. What are you _doing_?"

"Waking you up. We have to go. Now."

"Go where?"

"To your office," Charlie repeated.

"It's Saturday." Larry blinked and looked at the alarm clock beside the bed. "Don't you have a doctor's appointment today?"

"This is more important."

Larry nodded, getting up and rubbing at his eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed, still looking sort of half-asleep.

Charlie managed to interrupt his own panic long enough to remember that he really did love Larry. It was, strangely, not as reassuring a thought as it should have been.

"I'm going. I'm awake. Let me get some clothes on and I'll drive you over."

Charlie nodded, suddenly looking down at his own clothing and realizing he absolutely could _not_ be seen in public like this.

"I'll lend you something. And calm _down._ If you haven't remembered something, you will, and if you have, you're not going to forget."

"No, you're right. You're right. I'm just—" He gestured helplessly and Larry nodded, looking serious.

"I know. So _did_ you remember something?"

Charlie shook his head no, then stopped. "Not remembered, but I have this _feeling_ that I need to go to your office."

"Okay, then that's where we'll go. Here. Sweatpants."

"Princeton?"

"You went there too."

"Yes, but these are clearly _yours_ ," Charlie protested, pulling them up. They were an okay fit, but there was no way he wore these when he was thirteen.

"Nobody notices what you wear, Charles. They're too busy looking at—"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No— _what_?"

Larry grinned. "Your ass."

And Charlie laughed as Larry tossed him a t-shirt that said, "String Theorists Do It In Multiple Dimensions."

"Oh, and nobody will know _this_ is yours?"

Larry looked at the shirt and Charlie realized Larry had grabbed it at random.

"You do have a point. Though perhaps this is a good time to definitively claim my rights to your ass, while you aren't able to remember all the reasons you argued I shouldn't."

"I argued we should stay in the closet?"

Larry sighed and offered him another t-shirt, which was entirely generic.

Charlie ignored it, picking up the string theory shirt and putting it on.

"You might regret that later."

"I'll take that chance."

And Larry looked like he was going to argue, then didn't.

* * *

CalSci looked like he expected it would, with pleasant, arched walkways and an assortment of students who not only didn't look at his ass, they hardly seemed to notice him at all. Most of them sort of purposefully found something else to look at when they noticed he and Larry walking by and Charlie wondered if Larry was aware of that. He sort of assumed Larry was popular, but then again, nobody else knew what Larry was like in bed. Hopefully. He really wasn't going to ask at this point.

And there was Larry's office, and Larry unlocked it, looking at Charlie first, who nodded. This was scary, because he knew that he'd been here, and he'd known all along that it was entirely possible that whatever happened, happened _elsewhere_. But his gut—and the vestige of those dreams he'd had—was telling him the answer was _here_.

Larry opened the door, and Charlie walked in ahead of him, Larry following and shutting the door behind him, and just as he did so, there was a knock and Larry opened it up again.

"Hi—Larry, I thought I saw you and—oh. Charlie!"

Ms. Ramajuan, who he was apparently not interested in, but who was still so beautiful and looking at _him_ so _intently_ , he had a hard time figuring out what to say. Larry saved him again.

"I thought it might help Charles get his memory back if he looked over some of the research notes he left here."

"That's a good idea. I didn't—I didn't realize you were getting out of the hospital yet. I'm really—really glad."

"Me too," he agreed. "Amita," he said, testing out her name, because his email said they were on a first name basis. She smiled brightly, as if he'd done something right, and then she clasped her bag to her chest, momentarily obscuring what was a pretty spectacular view.

Not that he noticed anything but Larry. And speaking of which, he leaned closer to Larry, whispering, "You were right. Appearances _can_ be deceiving." Amita either didn't hear him or pretended not to. Larry's eyes widened, but he didn't comment.

"And here they are," Larry said, handing him a pile of papers that were, unlike the computer files, in no apparent order. Though that might have been the way that Larry gathered them up, watching _him_ the whole time as he definitely did _not_ look at Amita in a sexual way.

Much.

And wow, there must be some seriously interesting reasoning he was _not_ remembering for why he ended up with a cheeky male astrophysicist twenty years older than himself and not _this_ woman, who was definitely checking him out.

"That's a…a funny t-shirt."

Charlie looked down at it as if he hadn't noticed what he was wearing. "Yeah."

He realized she was waiting for an explanation—and probably anything would do. He'd borrowed it after he spilled something on his own shirt. Larry had left it over his house after _he_ spilled something on it and it had ended up in the laundry where he'd taken it out without noticing it.

"Larry gave it to me," he said, and Amita's eyes widened. She looked over at Larry and Larry sat down behind his desk, looking small but somehow still surprisingly imposing, though he was now looking _up_ at them both.

"Well, it's very…amusing," she said softly.

"And true," Larry added.

Charlie put down the pile of papers he was holding. They no longer seemed necessary. Amita was staring at him.

Larry cleared his throat. "Y'know, I saw one that said, 'Combinatorialists do it as many ways as they can' but it seemed a bit cheap."

"Combinatorialists do it discretely," she shot back, and Charlie grinned, not sure if he was rooting for Larry on this one or not. 

"Point taken," Larry said, nodding. 

"Wait—so how do Applied Mathematicians do it?" he asked. 

"The better question, Charles, is 'What is the difference between an applied mathematician and a pure mathematician?'" 

"Um… I don't remember." 

"I thought not. Suppose a mathematician parks his car, locks it with his key and walks away. After walking about 50 yards the mathematician realizes that he has dropped his key somewhere along the way. What does he do?" 

Amita nodded and answered for him: "If he is an applied mathematician he walks back to the car along the path he has previously traveled looking for his key. If he is a pure mathematician he walks to the other end of the parking lot where there is better light and looks for his key there." 

"Riiight. Yes. Thank you." 

Amita looked at them both and then put her hand on Charlie's arm. "I—we can talk when you—later." 

"Absolutely." 

And then she was gone, leaving Charlie alone with Larry, a set of missing keys, and a choice that wasn't really a choice. 

He retraced his steps. 

* * *

"Where were we?" 

"Specifically? I'm afraid that even _I_ don't precisely remember, Charles. Somewhere in this room is the best I can do. It didn't seem significant at the time."

"At your desk?" 

"No. I don't think so. No." 

"Process of elimination. What were we talking about?" 

"Nothing important." 

"You don't know that." 

"Charles, I _don't_ know that. And I'm sorry. We were talking about the conference, I think. I was worried—"

"No—wait." Charlie shut his eyes, _willing_ himself to remember.

It was no good. 

"Maybe you should fuck me." 

"Charles, I _do_ hope you're joking."

He opened his eyes, staring at Larry. "Yes, I'm joking." 

"Oh. Disappointing." 

"Be serious." 

"I _am_ serious."

Charlie balled up one of the pieces of paper scattered on the desk and threw it. 

"Very childish. And you missed." 

"I'm trying to get my life back and you're distracting me." 

"I'm distracting you because you came in here looking worse than I've ever seen you, and I'm worried and trying very hard not to be." 

Charlie walked over behind the desk and put his hand on Larry's shoulder, squeezing it. 

"Ow." 

The paper on the floor. The paper on the floor. Something about the paper on the floor. 

"Charlie? Charlie, you with us?"

Dad.

"He's—he can hear you. He's just… give him a minute."

Don.

"He got like this when…Should we call the hospital? Maybe we should call the hospital."

_Suppose that you are organizing hospital accommodations for a group of four hundred cancer patients. Space is limited and only one hundred of the patients can be admitted. The rest will die. To complicate matters, the Head of Oncology has provided you with a list of pairs of incompatible patients, and requested that no pair from this list appear in your final choice._

The hospital. He didn't want to go back. It was wrong of him, he knew that, but he just… couldn't.

"I don't—I really don't know what happened."

_This is an example of what computer scientists call an NP-problem, since it is easy to check if a given choice of one hundred patients proposed by the admitting nurse is satisfactory (i.e., no pair taken from your admitting nurse's list also appears on the list from the Head of Oncology's office), however the task of generating such a list from scratch seems to be so hard as to be completely impractical. Indeed, the total number of ways of choosing one hundred patients from the four hundred terminal patients is greater than the number of atoms in the known universe!_

Larry?

"He was fine—worried, naturally worried, under the circumstances, but fine. Determined. He was—I don't—he doesn't look at all well, Don, and I—maybe we _should_ call the hos—"

"No—he's okay. He just needs to—"

"He's been like this for well over an hour, Don. Practically catatonic. Alan, this isn't—"

_Thus no future civilization could ever hope to build a supercomputer capable of solving the problem by brute force; that is, by checking every possible combination of 100 patients. However, this apparent difficulty may only reflect the lack of ingenuity of your programmer._

"What was he doing when this—what was he _doing_ . Was he _touching_ something?"

"My—he was bending down, picking up that piece of paper he crumpled up. And then he sat down. He didn't fall, he just…sat down on the floor. And it's not—it's just part of something he was working on. For me. It's just—"

_The **P**_ _versus_ **_NP_ ** _problem is to determine whether every language accepted by some nondeterministic algorithm in polynomial time is also accepted by some (deterministic) algorithm in polynomial time._

"He was bending down here, looking at this. Like this? Bending down. And this is _exactly_ —you didn't move _anything_ — _touch_ anything."

"No! Of course not. I called _you_. I didn't—I didn't touch—I should have called the hospital. I—"

"They never knew what to do."

_In fact, one of the outstanding problems in computer science is determining whether questions exist whose answer can be quickly checked, but which require an impossibly long time to solve by any direct procedure._

"He's been like this for well over an hour."

"Please, understand, sometimes I can't choose what I work on. I can't follow through on a line of thinking just because I want to, or, or because it's needed. I have to work on what's in my head. And right now, this is what's in my head."

"Charlie?"

"Charles."

"Oh. Oh, _God_ . Larry."

Charlie reached under the desk, blindly. For some reason he couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, _remembered_ it was there. He pulled it out, and someone took it from him; his hand was empty. He needed chalk. He needed something to _write_ with, dammit.

"Charles? Is this—is this it? You saw this and—what—you didn't even open it. Charles, Charles, look at me. You didn't open it."

He blinked, looked up at Larry, his vision clearing a little, but still blurry. "Chalk. A pen."

"In a minute, Charles. Here. Let me open this for you, first, and then you can get back to work."

"I have to solve this."

"I know. I know you do. And we'll solve it, I promise."

"No, no, no. Larry, you don't _understand_ . It's a problem of incompatible pairs."

"I think I do understand that, Charles, and we can argue about our mutual compatibility later. But try to focus for a moment. This—the Head of Oncology happens to be a dear friend of mine, Charles. His wife went to school with me, before—before you were born, as a matter of fact."

"He thinks Larry's _dying_ ? Dad?"

"Charlie? Is that what's been bothering you? Because Larry's fine. That's right. You are fine, right? Tell him you're fine, Larry."

"Charles, Charles, listen to me. You're entirely right. I'm dying. All of us are dying, a few cells at a time, but Charles, we're also _living_ ."

"Larry, I—I can't—"

"I know. And hopefully, you won't have to. At least not for many, many years. Because I _don't_ have cancer. I have a friend who works with people who do, and who is a braver man that I am for doing so, and I suspect it might help us at some point to sit down and talk to him about how he does that."

Larry was crouching down on the floor beside him, his face oddly pale and drawn. He didn't _look_ okay. But he _said_ he was okay. People lied. But Larry—Larry told the truth even if—sometimes _especially_ if—it might hurt.

"You're not dying."

"No, which doesn't mean that I _won't_ die—of cancer or something else at some indeterminate point in the future that I prefer, as a general rule, not to dwell on, if you don't mind. But yes, I make no promises that tomorrow I won't get hit by a bus, though I do intend to continue looking both ways before crossing. Or, students. I sometimes fear that my brain might explode in response to their stupidity, which would be a tragedy, though I suspect they might not think so, given their recent evaluations of my teaching."

"You're—you're really okay."

Larry nodded, and the tight, worried expression was replaced by something more familiar. "And _you're_ obviously not."

"I'm—no. No. I don't think I am." But Charlie took what felt like the first breath he'd taken in _years_ and shook his head, feeling a little dizzy. "I—Larry, did I—did I just come out to _Amita_ ?"

And Larry didn't answer but did lean forward and kiss him, full on the mouth, and, ignoring his Dad and Don, he grabbed hold of Larry and kissed him right back.

* * *

_Epilogue_ :

He still avoided hospitals, when he could. And for a while, he avoided Amita, though between Don's work and his own, in the end he pretty much had to give up on avoidance and just learn to _deal_ . Amita helped with that, as she seemed to find it pretty amusing when he and Larry argued, which they continued to do on an almost hourly basis.

And he and Larry ended up having dinner with the oncologist, who actually remembered Mom, and whose wife told the most _brilliant_ , embarrassing stories about Larry, which almost made up for the fact that afterwards, Charlie ended up with a referral to a grief counselor that led to a prescription for anti-anxiety medication (that Larry promised he could stop taking if it interfered with his work, which Larry insisted it wouldn't, and Charlie took the pills even though he decided that yes, sometimes Larry _did_ lie after all).

But it got easier. For one thing, he stopped pretending that everything was alright, and, oddly enough, he stopped feeling quite so much like everything _wasn't_ alright, and the number of times he stopped functioning diminished, and he saw a good deal less of the garage, which Larry admitted to having privately thought of as his "Fortress of Solitude." It was all very strange, but good. Don even started to act… well, normal around him, and he realized that he'd never really thought about the fact that Don actually lost Mom, too, and that Don was sort of angry that he thought _he_ had to pretend that everything was alright. Dad seemed to be the only one who was even slightly normal and in no need of an intervention, which was a shock, though he figured Mom probably knew that.

And really, normal was a relative word.

One night when they were both very tired, during one of those late-night conversations that Larry insisted he never remembered the next morning, Larry told him that he had made a pact with the Devil himself that would prevent him from dying until he'd had perfect sex a certain number of times. And Larry categorically refused to divulge that number, which suggested to Charlie that Larry wrongly assumed performance anxiety was the ideal solution to maladaptive grief.

On the other hand, Larry seemed to be onto something, as they did have a tremendously active sex life, and were as happy as two people of independent minds could be, given that they both suffered through so many imperfect orgasms.

  


The End.

**Author's Note:**

> The P versus NP problem adapted slightly from the wording of the official Millennium Prize Problem:  
> http://www.claymath.org/millennium/P_vs_NP
> 
> Thanks to Anne Sigrid, whose love of the Amnesia story compelled me to write this, and whose judgment I trust immensely. And thanks to Kate, whose generosity in letting me into her reading of these pages tells me so very much about my writing I couldn't learn any other way.
> 
> Written for the Numb3rs ficathon.


End file.
